


Paralians

by Summerlin



Series: Redemption Arc [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), M/M, Multiple Personalities, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Vampire Brendon Urie, Vampires, fall out boy - Freeform, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlin/pseuds/Summerlin
Summary: Originally posted on Mibba (2011), transferred to better platform. This is still in progress.





	1. Chapter 1

When they’d locked eyes, Brendon didn’t really know what to feel. Hunger, lust, yeah, that was what he felt on an almost daily basis. This, this was unbearable, liquid fire flooding his senses. He needs to touch, strangle, caress, just any form of contact. He wants to rip and tear and indulge, so when the movement of the crowd accelerates him toward this person, he can’t comprehend how intoxicating it is when he finally gets close enough that the scent hits him so hard he stumbles, trips on his own feet and just fucking keens. The human takes notice and interprets it as fainting because seriously, this is the most captivating person he’s ever seen. Brendon stares long and hard at him, begging him to keep him grounded yet he can’t form words. When his arms catch Brendon around the waist and hoist him back up, the mass of bodies pulsing to the electric beat of the speakers, and the war is already lost. This one is dead, not chance, no going back. He will die at Brendon’s hands, whenever Brendon decides.  
  
The human’s arms are taut and stern, holding Brendon’s weight as he tries to gather himself and fucking focus. He came here to feed; it’s just that he never anticipated a pull this strong toward his prey. It was the electric blue eyes that Brendon couldn’t look away from. He’d never been so lost in them, like they could see everything.  
  
“Can you stand?” he asks, voice cautious and like music to Brendon’s ears. He’s absolutely enamored. Brendon can’t speak.  
  
“Shit, let’s get you out of here and find a medic.” he says, voice dripping with worry. Brendon clutches at his shirt sleeve, trying to keep pace and he’s rushed through the bodies he no longer desires, just the one supporting him. The frantic beating of his heart, Brendon isn’t quite sure at this point, is perhaps from the music. He smells clean and pure, free of any of the brown drugs being passed around. They’re breaking through the wall of people toward the back fence. The human sets him down on the pavement and kneels to get a good look at him, blue eyes searching and scanning. He puts a hand to Brendon’s neck, and his skin shoots sparks. He purrs violently.  
  
“Fuck, you’re pale. Did you take anything?” he asks. Brendon bites his lip and stares him down trying to get him to just walk out of the barrier and out of sight where he can ravage him to pieces. Nothing happens.  
  
“I’m going to find a medic who should be on hand somewhere close by. I’m Spencer. Shout if you need anything that I’m forgetting, alright?” He gets up to leave, but Brendon is so quick to grab his wrist that he fears he might’ve snapped it. He’d been so used to other vampires’ indestructability that he had forgotten how delicate humans were.  
  
Spencer gasped at the vice grip, burning a hole into Brendon with his icy stare. Brendon tugged urging him back down to eye level. The fire was so intense now, he needed the addicting contact, feel his heartbeat slow in his ears. His fingers drag down Spencer’s shirt, ripping the fabric with his nails and Brendon leans in heatedly to lick a broad, lustful stripe up his neck, to taste the sweat is enough to send him reeling. Spencer tries to push against him, but Brendon’s so far gone that his grip is like chains to a wall with nowhere to go but oblivion.  
  
Spencer keens and shakes violently when Brendon makes that squelching, meaty bite. Brendon sighs breathily and takes eager mouthfuls. Spencer is fighting the urge to give in and go lax because beneath the underlying pain, the heady moan he wants to let out is nearly overwhelming. Brendon groans and pulls Spencer impossibly closer, gradually biting deeper and palming Spencer’s chest to feel the heart quicken it’s frantic pace before gradually slowing to a stop.  
  
But Spencer, Spencer has strength, remarkable will, and he shoves Brendon off of him with a growl, and that spark, that intense connection is lost. He’s never felt anything like it before. It’s addicting, and Brendon’s staring at the ground in a daze, absentmindedly licking his lips. The punctures in Spencer’s throat are hidden by his long hair, hidden by the curling layers and barely there scruff of beard he’d been successfully taming for weeks. His breaths are coming fast and heavy. He catches a glimpse of Brendon’s teeth and his own blood staining them. He’s panicking until Brendon actually looks at him, and it’s not that predatory gaze anymore, but alarm and fear.  
  
Spencer is clutching his neck and before Brendon can make any advance to treat it, Spencer flinches away. He can’t run. His gut tells him not to. The pull to this creature is too strong. He’s too attracted to move. Brendon bites his lip again and glances around them shamefully. He realizes what he’s done and didn’t even try to stop himself. Now that Pete was gone, he didn’t have any will or real reason to. Spencer had made that break in the fog like a fucking spotlight.  
  
Brendon bites his finger, and when Spencer tries to squirm away, Brendon glances to meet his eyes, and that same chill bolts through his limbs. “Hold still, please.” The blood pools beautifully and cauterizes the wound, knitting the skin back together to leave a very vicious bruise. Brendon licks is finger once he’s done and sits back on his heels. Brendon is sheepish and ashamed, worrying at the paper band on his wrist, sneaking glances at Spencer and waiting for him to say something.  
  
This kid, to Spencer, is younger than he is, far from his scene to be wandering with drug-induced hipsters. Blood still stains Brendon’s lips in stark contrast to his marble skin, and the sensation that still lingers on Spencer’s throat is too real to ignore.  
  
“Run and scream if you’d like. Forgive me, but it makes no difference to me at this point.”  
  
What a distinction, Spencer thinks, how delicate that line is between animal and humanity. Brendon gazes at the pools of blue, waiting for him to run or make a scene, and Spencer’s hooked.  
  
Spencer wants.


	2. Chapter 2

With Brendon around, Spencer realizes that one day, be it sooner or later, he’s going to die at Brendon’s hands. He can’t get away. He doesn’t want to. Not at all. Brendon is the most intriguing thing Spencer had ever seen. He can handle the mood swings. After dealing with both of his sisters going through puberty by himself, he’s developed a high tolerance for those times when Brendon treats him like a petty object, instead of a living, breathing being. But Brendon is loving, Spencer notes. He’s hyper-aware of his emotions, prickling like needles when Spencer is on edge. He tries his best to soothe him.

But he also catches on to how possessive Brendon can be. It’s in the way he’d watch him as Spencer sleeps, the way his nostrils flare and eyes narrow when he’ll return from a recording session with another’s scent lingering on him, how he’ll crawl into the bed and just touch. Spencer leans into the contact and sparks of cool fire shoot through Brendon’s psyche. It’s a drug. Brendon strokes the whisps of hair on Spencer’s beard with his fingertips, slowly and meticulously, though he’s done it countless times before.

Spencer realizes the innocence in him. How Brendon, with all of his strength and ferocity, is still so, so fragile. He put some of the pieces together, the things Brendon lets slip in conversation, and he’s taken a little pity on him on part of his destructive past. Brendon never deserved any of this, he thinks, doesn’t deserve to slowly lose his humanity.

Brendon is curled into him now, pressed flush against Spencer’s side beneath the comforter and sheets. Spencer shivers from the cold. The heater in his apartment broke, so with the winter temperatures and Brendon’s nonexistent body heat around at all times, Spencer tries not to mind. He’d taken to covering his windows with foil, too broke to buy curtains and the landlord would not stand to painting the windows black, and adjusting to Brendon’s sleeping schedule at his insistence. With all of the people Brendon has been feeding from lately, he always manages to choose those a bit more well-off, and Spencer’s bank account has been steadily increasing every week, though under the radar of any noses poking around. He strokes Brendon’s hair lovingly, busying at the curtains of hair around his ears.

“Would you spend forever with me?” Brendon whispers, sounding so small and doubtful. He asks this question frequently, always ending with Spencer giving his hand a thoughtful squeeze but never anything more.

Spencer is scared. The thought of dying is something he has no control over, and it terrifies him. He knows he’s such a hypocrite by being with Brendon, but that’s the one thing Spencer’s made quite clear to him that he’s apprehensive about. Forever with Brendon means dying. Dying means disappearing. Disappearing means losing yourself. Spencer isn’t prepared for that.

“Someday.” Spencer says. “Someday will be forever. Just you and me.”

“When will that be, Spencer? You’re always growing older. You’ll forget me and I’ll be alone again. I can’t go back to that, Spence. I can’t be alone.”

“You’ve never been alone.”

“You may think that. Because I have been with a coven and have had companionship that I was never alone. Spencer, the one thing you don’t understand is how alone I’ve always been. “ Brendon shifts closer, nosing at his jaw. “Spence, look at me.”

He’s going to do it, Spencer thinks, he won’t stop. Spencer stares at the sheets bunched around them and swings his legs over the edge to pull away, heading for the bathroom. He feels just as cold as he did with Brendon in his bed.

Brendon is hurt. “Spencer, please look at me.”

He doesn’t acknowledge, turning on the light and going through the cabinet for those sleep aids he’s been dying to take since Brendon’s nightmares became too much to handle. The room is bleached in the fluorescent light and Spencer is nearly blind with the change. He doesn’t want to go that far with Brendon yet. He doesn’t even have his life figured out, no security whatsoever, let alone his after-life. His heart pounds with the very thought of it. Sure, Brendon feeds from him nightly; reminding himself as he feels the bruises on his wrist, but he stops when Spencer says so, when he becomes light-headed and the world begins to turn gray. Brendon won’t stop.

Brendon won’t stop.

“Look at me!” Brendon growls, low and animal. Spencer is forced around and pressed into the sink with Brendon’s vice grip on his shoulders, spine hitting the edge painfully and he gasps. Brendon lets out a drawn out snarl, looking Spencer up and down with dilated eyes. Blood is running from his ears and nose, and Spencer swears his eyes changed color. He’s petrified with pools of milky blue, scowling at him.

“You don’t understand what it’s like to be alone, Spencer.” He shook at the voice, at its malicious and cruel tone, not Brendon’s warm falsetto. “I won’t wait around for you to just decide. Brendon is tearing himself apart because of you. How can you stand to see him like that?” he snarls.

Spencer tries to speak, but all that he manages to get out is a pathetic whine from his throat. Brendon hisses and shakes his head violently, pressing his palm to his temple before looking at Spencer desperately. “Spence, I need you. I want you to stay with me.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me. You’re not yourself.”

Brendon takes a few heaving breaths, then makes direct eye contact, anchoring his hand to the back of Spencer’s neck, bracing his hold on him further. “I am in control, Spencer Smith. We want you, in every way possible.” Brendon goes in for the bite before Spencer can think of a good reply to stall.

Spencer has never screamed so hard in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

In the struggle, Spencer had fought hard against Brendon, managing to push him off twice until Brendon pounced on him with all of his weight, and sent them crashing through the doorway. Brendon’s milky stare never faltered through the entire ordeal, from draining Spencer dry to feeding him. At his weakest point, Spencer still fought him like a desperate child, swatting away with every ounce of energy he had. His body died without fanfare. Spencer used every bit of control he had left from crying out. His body convulsed and jerked with such restrain that Brendon-who was in control at the moment that was certainly not him- was astounded. He let out a few whines, grunts, and hitches of breath. He clawed at the porcelain tiles by the tub, and when he got a hold of the shower curtain, the tension from his grip made the rod give way, and the plastic sheet came crashing down, the rod itself missing him by mere inches.  
  
He stilled, and slumped against the tile, boneless and lifeless. By this time, yeah, Brendon had come to. After all, the task was done. Once it was finished, William left Brendon to clean up the mess. He’d figured, with how reserved and collected Spencer was in his mortality, he’d be just as stoic now. How wrong he was.  
  
As soon as the sun set, Spencer was up, scrambling and pressing himself to the far corner of the tub. Brendon was startled at the quick movement, more than what he was used to with Spencer. With his hair mussed and hands trying to grasp the grout in the wall, Brendon tried to coax him slowly. Spencer was freaking the fuck out, and Brendon knew exactly how he felt.  
  
Spencer’s eyes were bluer than they had ever been, a sharp, thin line around his enlarged pupils that darted around the room. His skin was like marble now and his beard, god, his beard stood out against the pale so starkly. Brendon caught a glimpse of his teeth, so well hidden and lethal that made Spencer even more dangerous than what Brendon had been worrying over. Spencer’s nostrils flared, catching Brendon’s scent no doubt, and when he zeroed in on him, his eyes narrowed to slits and a snarl ripped through his throat, baring his new teeth and slowly getting up, stalking toward Brendon predatorily.  
  
Brendon’s eyes widened to saucers, and from his crouched position on the floor, Spencer towered over him, and he began to scramble away, kicking across the floor. It was like something inside Spencer snapped, and he launched himself at Brendon with a growl, fangs and nails bared.  
  
“Spencer, no! Please!”  
  
Brendon darted out of reach before Spencer’s hands closed around his throat. Spencer’s bed separated them, but he lithely stepped up onto the comforter, stalking forward, and the growl ripping through his chest sent wave after wave of panic through Brendon.  
  
“Spence, it’s me, Brendon! Look at me!”  
  
The glare Spencer was casting Brendon did not falter, backing him toward the wall. Brendon’s eyes searched for an escape, but Spencer was closing in on him, running his tongue along the sheen of his teeth. His knuckles flex, and Brendon knows all too well that his fingernails are now strong enough to rip through flesh effortlessly. The hair on Brendon’s neck bristles instinctively, yet he doesn’t know what to do. Beckett has fled, leaving Brendon alone to deal with his mess.  
  
Spencer lunges for him, and it’s times like these (if they have any particular significance at all) that Brendon is eternally grateful for his ability to scale sheer faces; Spencer’s bedroom wall being just that. He scrambles for a reliable grip into the painted drywall when Spencer gets a good hold on his bare ankle, nails digging fiercely into the muscle. Brendon lets out a feral snarl of pain and pulls himself further up the wall, dragging Spencer off of the floor with him. He claws at Brendon’s leg rabidly. They reach the ceiling under Brendon’s strength, and with Spencer’s added weight, he struggles to keep his grip, one had braced against the ceiling, the other behind his back, clinging to the wall. Spencer growls furiously, seething through his teeth before he buries them into Brendon’s exposed hip. Brendon cries out, a strangled, anguished sob. He doesn’t understand. Why has Spencer become so rabid? What has Brendon done?  
  
He knees Spencer square in the chest, before nearly losing his grip against the chipping paint, and Spencer is thrown back, flying across the room. He collapses onto the floor, his head hitting the footboard of the bed and breaking his fall. It’s now warped and dented from the violent impact. Spencer’s growls slowly fade as he lies as a crumpled heap, curled in on himself and shivering. Brendon doesn’t move from his spot on the wall, eyes watching unblinkingly at the body lying on the floor. His leg is bleeding, dripping onto the wood flooring in a steady rhythm. It’s not that he doesn’t feel the blinding pain at the torn muscle, and the rancorous punctures in his hip, his instincts tell him to focus on more important things, like eradicating Spencer now that his subconscious tells him he is a threat.  
  
Spencer groans, rolling onto his back, wrapping his arms protectively around is chest. There’s a flaking trail of blood drawn down his neck from his ear, matching that to the darker splotches of Brendon’s that still smear his mouth. His chest rises and falls, heaving breaths that whistle past his new teeth, but he doesn’t move from his spot. His hand falls from his hold though, sliding limply from his chest and onto the floor, palm against the wood.  
  
“Shit,” he moans exasperatedly. He chokes on his breath for a moment, and Brendon knows that feeling; the realization that you don’t need it, that your heart no longer beats but lies as a lump of meat in your chest. “B-Bren...” Spencer rolls onto his stomach and his arms brace against the floor, struggling to find his bearings. His hands reach out blindly, for him Brendon thinks, but they ultimately find nothing, and Spencer panics. He’s alone. He can’t breathe and he’s alone.  
  
“Brendon!” he cries. Spencer’s back is to Brendon as he scrambles to his feet, tripping over them until he props himself up with the edge of the mattress. It’s only a split second before he’s sprinting like a bullet through the doorway and out into the hallway, searching frantically, calling Brendon’s name with a sort of desperation that makes his stomach drop and throat clench.  
  
Brendon drops soundlessly from the ceiling, landing precariously on the balls of his bare feet when he determines that it’s safe enough now that Spencer is out of the room. He can hear Spencer perfectly through the walls as he searches around the apartment with anxiety.  
  
Brendon knows what he has done. He killed Spencer, murdered him and took his life. That’s what a fraction of him wants to convince, but the louder and more prominent part of him says  _This is what you wanted. Claim your prize._  He doesn’t know how to feel anything but the intense guilt, not for killing Spencer (because, thinking logically, Spencer still exists) but ultimately making him suffer, turning him with so much pain and cold determination that left him feeling so empty and detached. He can’t stand, can’t support his weight as his leg fights to heal itself. His hip is scarred now with Spencer’s mark, another to add to the many others that decorate his skin and reminding him of what he’s done. He limps to the mattress, leg numb and dragging behind him ever so slightly until he collapses on the sheets. He winces now, as the muscle sews itself back together agonizingly slow, skin knitting seamlessly back to its original state. Spencer barrels back into the room, but Brendon doesn’t make any effort to look at him, keeping his back to the doorway, and Spencer can trace the tense lines in the ridges of his spine, poking beneath the fabric of his wrinkled shirt; one of the few kept in Brendon’s small bag in the corner of the room. He takes careful steps around the bed, even more so when he knows he’s at least entered Brendon’s peripherals.  
  
“You’re still here.” Spencer says quietly, soft and terse. Brendon doesn’t react at all, keeping his eyes glued to his hands folded in his lap. Blood trails down his ankle through his jeans and onto the floor. The torn bits of dark denim show the ripped skin underneath, and Spencer visibly winces, looking from his hands to Brendon’s right leg. “I-I hurt you.”  
  
“Yeah, you did. I suppose we’re even now. Human laws do not apply to you anymore.” Brendon mumbles. He looks up at Spencer, unblinkingly with careful browns. Spencer is struggling to understand.  
  
“You… did you—did you turn me?”  
  
Brendon swallows and licks his lips, casting his gaze back to his lap. “I did, but…that…that wasn’t me.” Spencer doesn’t respond. “I think you know by now that I’m not entirely stable, Spencer. And I’ve ruined everything.”  
  
“But isn’t this a good thing?” Spencer argues, a whine punctuating his tone. “We’re the same now. We can’t hurt—“ He stops short, glancing at Brendon still-bleeding leg. “You’re not tempted to kill me anymore, right?”  
  
Brendon snorts, rubbing the callouses on his fingertips. “I never wanted to kill you Spencer, and the fact that you let me in so willingly gave me every reason not to. I wanted you, Spencer, so badly, and William gave you to me. I was so desperate for you that I never even gave you a real chance to oppose me or even fight back. Even if you’re like this, Spence, I can still hurt you… in every way possible. I didn’t mean for things to go this way.”  
  
“Is that who that was?” Spencer asks, taking a weary step toward Brendon but keeping a careful distance. Brendon nods.  
  
“There’s a reason other vampires stay away from me, Spence. I take that you’ve noticed at some point or another. They know who I am, where I once belonged, and I have a…reputation. They can smell him on me, Spencer, and he’ll never go away. I carry that memory of the Dandies with me, wherever I go. The only reason they haven’t gone after you is because they smell me on you. They knew you were mine, but now that you’re…one of us, you aren’t restricted to my protection anymore. You can go as you please, and I doubt it will make any difference to William. This was my mistake for letting him out and letting my own greed get the better of me.” Brendon struggles to stand, hoisting himself gingerly off of the bed to face Spencer. Brendon’s leg isn’t fully healed yet, and he needs to feed, that pull in his veins lusting for nourishment. Spencer helps him to stand as he braces his hands against Brendon’s arms, steadying him. “I’ve never sired before, Spencer, but I know there are certain obligations for me to teach you to survive like this. I only ask that before you leave, you learn from me, just this once. Then, after… you can go.”  
  
Brendon stares at his blood smeared over Spencer’s mouth. He licks his thumb and goes to wipe the excess away, but then the sudden physical contact is ignited, firing bright sparks down Brendon’s spine. He can’t help it, the way he can feel everyone, but Spencer finches and shivers, shooting Brendon a bewildered look before catching Brendon’s wrist, keeping his thumb to his cheek.  
  
“Is that what it feels like?” Spencer stammers, let it slowly roll out as he shakes.  
  
Brendon doesn’t know what to make of it. Others are not attuned to him to feel anything, their psyches too weak to pick up the subtle nuances of Brendon’s emotions that he gives off and feeds from. He searches Spencer’s face as he leans into his hand, wanting more of that pulsating contact. Brendon feels whole again, more than he’s ever felt in the three years he’s been alone.  
  
“I’m not leaving.” Spencer blurts out. “I’m not leaving you alone like this. You don’t deserve that, Brendon.”  
  
He watches Spencer intently, biting his lip, and the slow, cautious grin on Spencer’s face is enough to show his sincerity. Brendon matches it, still apprehensive that one move could potentially fuck everything up.  
  
“I…” Brendon drops his hand and lifts his right leg, stretching it out behind him. “I-I…I need to feed.” Spencer’s face falls, crossing his arms over his chest and looks at Brendon from beneath his bangs. Brendon doesn’t need him anymore for that. He’ll go off on his own now, leave Spencer behind. “You’re coming with me this time. I need to show you how to do it properly.”  
  
Spencer supports Brendon with an arm around his shoulder, leading him through the doorway and stroking Brendon’s hand gratefully.


	4. Chapter 4

Spencer has noticed it, night by night, how much Brendon is fading away and relying on him to simply make it through the day. He’s not stupid. He knows that Brendon is the most dangerous thing out there, now that he’s seen the lesser cliques actually clear paths for him and look away. Brendon is oblivious to it all. Spencer is the only thing that matters to him. Spencer has done his research about his past now, and what the cliques have to say. He’s the mediator between it all. He won’t come off as a threat, not now with the respect of being Brendon’s companion gives him. This William Beckett Spencer has heard so much about, the others around the city say that Brendon is the last of his kin, that the Hunters had all but wiped out the all-powerful Dandies. Brendon was his favorite, knew his secrets and Beckett kept him close. Spencer realizes now how close he was, so much that he’s infected with him. He can feel how that influence has been passed down to him, this thrumming malice in his veins that fights to get out and ravage, but it’s so diluted from Spencer’s willpower and Brendon’s own blood that it barely makes a dent.  
  
Brendon is becoming like a child now. The line between right and wrong is no longer as defined as it was for him and with that, he’s killed more than Spencer has ever seen. Though he still properly disposes of the bodies as he had once showed Spencer, there are more to account for than ever.  
  
Spencer watches the line of Brendon’s shoulders, studying the protrusions of bone and smooth muscle that move beneath the skin. Brendon purrs, low and vibrating in his throat and clutches a handful of sheets. Watching him now, Spencer can understand why he was chosen himself. There’s a natural attraction, some familiarity in the fluid movements they made, even when they were human. He likes to stare at Brendon, his maker. The word rolls gently off of his tongue. He likes saying it, over and over in his head now that his mind isn’t clouded by anger and that hint of Beckett that likes to provoke him. It doesn’t sound as dominating as sire would, and looking at him, hardly fits with Brendon’s appearance. He’s young, was turned young, but he’s as old as Spencer is, perhaps a few years older. He smiles fondly at this…this delicate-looking boy, changing his life and caring for him to the point where he himself must be cared for. Spencer’s smile fades with the thought that he’s slowly realizing.  
  
Brendon is forgetting. Slowly, gradually. Forgetting.  
  
He’s hesitant to reach and make contact, creating that spark that electrifies Brendon’s nerves that he arches into Spencer’s touch on his spine, moaning softly, hips bucking into the mattress. There’s a tingle in Spencer’s fingertips, glowing and pulsating in time to Brendon’s purrs. They stop though, when he decides his hand should slide soothingly over Brendon’s vertebrae, and then Brendon stills, inhaling the pillow’s scent hungrily and groaning into the fabric. His eyes shoot open and Spencer’s two steps ahead of him when he retracts his hand and stumbles away from the bed. The maids or hotel staff won’t mind if the sheets are destroyed. They have more than enough money at this point to pay for the damages, with Brendon’s influence over them to  _just let it go_. Brendon’s lunged at him and missed, half dazed from sleep and thirst, and scrambles to the far corner of the suite by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wrapping his arms around his middle and crouching defensively. He hisses threateningly, glaring at Spencer with all of this seething hatred and loathing that came out of fucking nowhere. Brendon’s baring his teeth at him. Spencer is confused; he has the patience, sure, but does Brendon have the tolerance?  
  
Spencer tries to take a step forward, hands raised in surrender, but when he does, Brendon takes it as a threat, and hisses once more, curling further into the corner like a caged animal, helpless and desperate.  
“Brendon, calm down.” His eyes flash their milky film over the room, taking in his surroundings before landing on Spencer again. “You’re safe. You know who I am. Just… try and remember.”  
  
Brendon’s growling low in his throat, resonating on the walls when Spencer takes another step. He’s gripping the wall hard enough that the wallpaper and drywall begin to crack under the pressure. Spencer’s taking this nice and slow because, in his eyes, Brendon’s so scared that he’s running purely on blind instinct. “I’m Spencer. I don’t mean any harm.”  
Brendon flinches with each step Spencer takes, closer and closer and agonizingly slow until there is a safe distance between them that Brendon still has room to escape. He eyes Spencer up and down, scrutinizing every pore and muscle, determining if this is some sort of trick. His brows furrow when Spencer crouches to his level, extending a hand.  
  
“Brendon,” he says, hanging onto that gentle tone, as comforting as possible. “I’m here for you, for anything you need. I’d never hurt you.”  
  
This seems to vaguely register and Brendon uncoils himself, just slightly, to lean forward and get a closer look at him. His eyes are narrowed, but the cloudy film is still there, blocking all logic from Brendon’s thoughts. He inhales deeply, and shudders. Must be Spencer’s scent, something as natural and primitive should be enough to break through that fog. There are no distinct telltale signs anymore when Brendon shifts from one personality to the other. In the months they’ve been spending together, week by week, his eyes have gradually lost their color to fade into that pale and opaque blue, no longer the rich coffee brown they once were when they met. The nosebleeds have ceased. So, for now, Spencer keeps a close eye, ready to negotiate and settle when Brendon loses to Beckett’s influence once more.  
  
“I-I don’t know… I don’t recognize this place.” he says, finally. His eyes dart around, taking in the interior. He seems so small now that one of his walls has been torn down. Brendon inhales again, and flinches when Spencer moves his hand to rest on Brendon’s bare shoulder. Cold heat radiates from the touch and Brendon leans into it now, the sensation being somewhat familiar.  
  
Brendon grunts and lowers his eyes, biting his lip. “Sorry, Spence. I didn’t see you there for a minute.” he admits.  
  
It's their signal, when Brendon starts recovering from a lapse, when he starts to feel himself again. Today it’s only gotten worse, but Brendon can never know that. Spencer doesn’t want him to think he’s being abandoned again.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“He seemed so real, Spencer. He was going to hurt you—“  
  
“He’s gone, Bren. We’re at The Standard. He’s not here. It’s all in your head.” Spencer says, softly in a whisper.  
  
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” he whimpers.  
  
Spencer hoists him up, limbs everywhere and holding on like a lifeline. The pulsing in his veins demands to be satiated. He’s hungry. Brendon must be starving. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up to go out. When was the last time you fed, Bren?”  
  
Brendon grunts and stumbles to regain his balance, shaking the sleep from his thoughts. “Two nights ago...maybe. Three girls and that bouncer.” He grins at the memory, of the vicious fight he put up against a small, 19 year old kid who evidently won. Spencer’s gained a healthy tolerance for violence in the months he’s been turned, and he’s now fascinated with every hunt they go on, prowling the city streets for food, but for Brendon, Spencer knows it’s for something else entirely.  
  
Spencer helps Brendon out of his flannel bottoms and into the scalding shower. It’s hot enough to blister, just how Brendon likes it, hitting his indestructible skin in torrents of acid rain, and the steam billows up and over the glass door, flooding the bathroom in a cloudy haze. He doesn’t know where all of this anger and fear is coming from. Brendon has all he ever wanted. He’s safe and he’s loved, even when it was forced upon them. He’s not alone, and that’s what matters, but he feels more isolated than before. He won’t admit to Spencer that he periodically forgets who and where he is, and he’s becoming alienated from society.  
  
Brendon shuts off the water and pulls a towel around his waist. He nearly slips on the marble floor when he steps out, and despite his reflexes, Spencer is there to catch him under his arms. He’s dressed in one of the pressed shirts found in the closet, ready to leave until Brendon emerged and is now soaking the fabric with the wet beads still littering his skin. “Thanks, Spence.”  
  
“C’mon, get dressed, Bren.” Spencer advises. Brendon doesn’t protest. He’s grateful that Spencer is there, more than anything. He’s ushered into the closet and stands awkwardly in the doorway as Spencer fishes out garments from the shelves with routine precision. Brendon wraps his arms around his chest as he waits and stares at Spencer expectantly. Spencer emerges from the racks with fresh slacks and several shirts.  
  
This is what Spencer loves the most, how he can experiment like this without Brendon lashing out or spiting him. Brendon can handle that and simple shoes, nothing too flashy because the last thing he wants is to attract more attention to himself with the vibe he gives off to others. Spencer gives him the shirt, tugging it down and smoothing it in all of the right places, buttoning it up for him. He turns and makes a grab for the gray vest and tie, but when Brendon’s eyes catch it, he flinches, breath hitched, and he looks pained.  
  
“What, you don’t like it?” Spencer asks, mildly concerned with how Brendon looks almost afraid of it.  
  
“Just not the vest. Not the vest.”  
  
Spencer waits a moment, but decides it’s better that Brendon doesn’t look like he's been stabbed.  
  
“Sure…sure, Brendon, we can do without it.” He continues with the raven-colored tie, looping it around Brendon’s neck and ignoring the scars that peek just above the collar. He can’t think of Brendon as human. It isn’t that he wants to, he doesn’t have the ability to see him as a fragile, hyperactive teenager. It’s such a sharp contrast that it feels unnatural. After he tightens the knot, he steps back and smoothes the hair framing Brendon’s face. It’s dried on its own quickly, just a few hairs trying to escape the flow of the others. Brendon is looking at him shyly from under his lashes and stands perfectly still for him.  
  
“Do I look okay? Is this acceptable?” he asks quietly, waiting for Spencer’s approval, like he ever needed it in the first place. His apprehension is clear in the way Brendon’s eyebrows arch, how the veil over his eyes retreats for a split second to reveal the man Spencer remembers, and he grins, wide and showing teeth.  
  
“Of course.”


	5. Chapter 5

They part for him, clearing a path, but his focus is on Spencer, Spencer and feeding. Brendon’s looking everywhere but him, too hyperaware of his presence to have a real need to. Walking just inches behind him, Spencer follows, eyes trained on passerby in his peripheral vision as they move through the alleyways. Eyes follow them around corners, pressed against the walls, half scared and out of involuntary submission. The aura around them is something Brendon doesn’t like to pay attention to. It hangs off of him like a veil, curling and embracing Spencer, trailing behind them and intimidating the cliques and pricking their skin with needles, stabbing until they would back off. This veil pulsed pleasantly around them, and Spencer has never felt safer with Brendon than anyone he had met before. There’s hissing as they walk. The hairs on Spencer’s neck barb at the sound. It’s only when they round another corner onto an open street, when the growls and hisses get louder, that Brendon, for a brief second, looks back at Spencer with such love and excitement, that nothing matters. Fuck feeding, fuck hiding, fuck all of it. Brendon flashes a smile, teeth and all, moving his hand so stealthily into Spencer’s and lacing their fingers together that Spencer’s at a loss for words. Their steps are swift approaching the ropes of the club.

The moment the bouncer looks at Brendon, Spencer knows they’re clear. They slide easily through the door and the veil immediately disappears. Brendon is overwhelmed. He breathes in a sigh, eyes rolling back, and for a second he falls into Spencer, knees buckling under the sheer intensity of energies around them. But before Spencer can blink or even catch him, Brendon is pulling himself together. Smoothing his hair and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. There are distinct scars from teeth, dotting his skin under the strobes, and it reminds Spencer of how much Brendon has been through. He doesn’t know where they came from, but there are so many, vicious and stark.

The deep bass of the music surrounds them, beating through their limbs, and the crowd dances and jumps to that pulse, soaked in multiple colors of the lights and sweating like the prey they are. Brendon makes a move forward into the crowd, and Spencer, just for a moment of panic, snatches his wrist with a frightened grip. Brendon turns slowly in the movement of the bodies around them, and for a minute, Spencer thinks of how beautiful he is in the strobes. He flashes Spencer a loving grin and takes his face in his hands, bringing him to his level. His hold on Spencer is gentle, like it always is, and his hands are the perfect support.

“It’s only for a short while.” Brendon says, mouth moving quickly and articulately, just enough for Spencer to hear over the pulsing music. “Go and feed. I’ll do the same, and if you get lost, feel me, alright? You will always be able to find me.”

Spencer nods, because the words reflect in Brendon’s milky eyes and they hold so much honesty and warmth that it’s all Spencer can do. Brendon loses focus on him for a moment, head lulling to the side at the pulse of the bodies around them. Spencer watches him with such fascination, wonders what the effect of the energies must feel like, mind wandering to the moment when Brendon feeds, that first meaty bite that sends him reeling.

“Hey,” Brendon says, tightening his grip on Spencer until their eyes lock again. “I’ll find you before you find me. Go on. Go, feed.”

Brendon’s gone before Spencer can even reply, disappearing into the mass, moving in time like water through rocks, losing himself to the rhythm until he’s just another head in the crowd.

The soft throbbing, stroking in his mind trails after Brendon, and he’s right. Spencer will always know where he is, but he feels so empty, like the cold space of the bed where your lover should be. Spencer finds a tripped up girl three minutes into wandering up to the second level of the club. He hesitates, mind going elsewhere before taking the bite and pressing her into the cushions of the back booth, shot glasses and empty bottles littering the table. She moans and goes limp, and Spencer can faintly feel the high of whatever she’s on, but that dies quickly. They sink into the seats, lowering her down to lie on the fabric. He’s being savage, pulling on her hair and scraping his fingernails down her back. He wants to ignore the needy pull, thinks he should be stronger than the intense want he has for Brendon, so much it makes him keen. He lets her take her last breaths after he pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. He brushes the hair from his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the last remnants on his tongue. He feels stifled with all of these people moving around him, wishes he could feel them, move with them the way Brendon gets lost in it.

Spencer gets a few hungry, lingering stares from the women lining the spiral stairwell as he passes. They are not worth his time, as much as he would love to ravage them if he were that desperate. No, it’s not them. They’re nothing compared to what he wants. The beat in his ribcage is drowned out by the one in his head that tells him where to go, that you’ll find what you’re looking for. Spencer’s eyes scan the mass of moving bodies, letting his instincts control where his eyes wander and land on them against the far wall by the employee lounge. Brendon has him pressed against the wall, hand under his shirt, kissing hungrily. Spencer can hear the growls and purrs coming from Brendon’s throat, the moans that escape from the boy’s lips. Brendon is all over him. A fire burns hot in Spencer’s chest, this possessiveness that is radiating and encroaching into his vision. He doesn’t want to watch, wants to think that’s where he should be and that there is no resistance. Brendon wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt him even if he tried. Brendon moves lower to mouth at his neck. This kid thinks this is all it will become tonight, a one night stand, an STD test later, and then move on to the next willing fuck. Brendon’s mouth is sly and slick, moving over his jaw to settle at the base, his favorite place to bite. Spencer doesn’t need to be told when it happens. When Brendon starts to swallow, sealing his lips to the skin, the boy goes limp in his arms with a moan that is drowned out by the next song on the DJs obnoxious playlist. He’s taller than Brendon, looks too pretty to be seen with the likes of him, but that’s just Brendon’s charm. He’ll flash an innocent smile one minute, and then make you disappear into a corner with him the next, and he’ll be all over you until he can’t stop, and he’s no longer what you thought he was. Brendon’s moving with each swallow, getting so into it that he’s pushing the body into the wall, rolling his hips just to get closer and get as much as possible out of this limp sack he has in his arms. There’s no embellishment when he drops the body, forcing himself to tear away. He’s panting, low and labored, pressing his face into his arms against the wall.

Spencer has never really watched Brendon feed until now. It’s always been this discrete thing between them, the way Spencer’s mother would tell him to not chew his food with his mouth open. It’s another side he’s never seen before of his maker, one of the many yet to be shown to him as their companionship continues. Brendon’s coming down from his high. He turns his face toward Spencer and opens his eyes. They’re the deep brown Spencer remembers and he wonders if this is the way it has always been when Brendon feeds. He looks innocent and bashful, but licks the excess from his mouth without shame, staggering forward in the lingering haze. Shadows dance on his face from the club lights, creating two different and distinct personas in one person, more evident than before.

Spencer is there to cradle Brendon when standing becomes too much, the sensations of feeding and the pulse of the beat too overwhelming to bear on his own. The veil returns, and Brendon clings to him like a lifeline. There’s this grin, lopsided at best spreading in his face, but he doesn’t look Spencer in the eye. He stares at the pattern of his beard carefully, admiring it fondly.

“The way I used to be,” Brendon says, soft and deep. “I didn’t like to kill. I would avoid it at all costs and I valued human life once like I valued yours.” He falls into Spencer, gripping his shoulders. “It feels so far away now that I don’t even think about it.”

The door to the employee lounge opens. They’re so far back into the club, behind the control board and speakers, that the body is hidden in its shadow, unseen by the bartender returning to his post. Spencer feels his hand on his shoulder before he warns them to move to another spot, but Brendon is two steps ahead of him, twisting to push Spencer aside keeping a firm grip on his bicep, and snarls at the man, baring his teeth. The overly tanned bartender backs off quickly. He’s never seen a vampire before, probably never will again. Brendon waits until they can’t smell him anymore, nostrils flaring and the growl dying in his throat. When he looks at Spencer again, the cloudy film is back. Brendon closes his eyes looking pained for a moment, grunting with the way he pulls himself together.

“I apologize. I don’t like anyone touching you.” Brendon admits.

The very nature of what Brendon just did makes more sense to Spencer than anything he’s ever needed to explain. Spencer would do the same, but something tells him to hold back, that Brendon has the right to. If it weren’t for Brendon, his Brendon, Spencer wouldn’t even be here.

“Brendon, if you don’t mind my asking, who was Pete?”

Brendon stills, looking up at Spencer with so much hurt and a hint of betrayal that he almost rips himself away and escape, but Spencer’s grip is earnest and pliant, patient with how he asked the question. Brendon looks as if he might break down in tears.

“H-how do you know that name?”

Spencer drags his eyes to the floor and lets his grip on Brendon slip, letting his arms fall to his sides. He swallows. The veil has recoiled, and now he is being stabbed with the hostile stare he’s being given. He scuffs his shoe against the concrete floor. “I’ve…when you’re not around, I’m…taunted. The others, they mention a Peter more than anything else. I don’t understand.”

“Ignore it.” Brendon chokes painfully. “It’s nonsense.” He rubs his forearms gently, letting his fingers trail over the scars. The thought in the back of Spencer’s mind dwells for only a second before Brendon’s turning away and walking to the back door. His shoulders are hunched and he doesn’t look back, but his hand trails behind him, open and inviting. Spencer takes it gratefully.

They’re unphased by the bitter cold, fog settling around them. It brushes around Brendon’s shoulders and he stops at the railing of the loading ramp. His hair clings to his forehead with the moisture in the air. He doesn’t look at Spencer, instead he’s gazing at his hands, as if he’s afraid of them. Spencer is waiting, leaning against the door, fingers playing with the handle. The fog is thicker now, and though Brendon is just feet away from him, Spencer can only make out a detailed silhouette in the haze.

“Pete does not matter anymore. You mean more to me than he ever did, not because I made you, but because you are real. You’re more real to me than anything anymore, Spencer.” Brendon’s words catch in his throat and he chokes on them.

Early in the morning, Brendon is shaking beneath the sheets as Spencer climbs in, taking an hour after helping him into some clean pajamas to shower off the stale scent of cigarettes and ecstasy. Brendon’s limbs vibrate intermittently, and it isn’t until Spencer has the sheets over their heads and adjusts his pillow between his knees does he embrace Brendon, pulling him close to his chest. Brendon’s spasms cease almost immediately and he sighs into Spencer’s touch. He lets his fingers brush over every little scar littering Brendon’s arms and shoulders, nuzzling the large splash of disfigured skin on Brendon’s spine. Brendon shudders at this, and when Spencer cradles his arms around Brendon’s torso, he takes Spencer’s hands and presses feather-light, lingering kisses to his palms.

“You’re everything to me, Spence. “ Brendon purrs sleepily. “More than you can ever begin to imagine.”


End file.
